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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SUMMER-FALLOW 



y 



CHARLES BUXTON GOING 



Fallow yields y awaiting here 
Seed and scythe a^totker year^ 

Let us pick, in passing' by. 
Any bloom that takes the eye; 

Hoping fuller tilth may yield 
Worthier harvest frofn thejield. 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



Y 9 )m2 

■ — . - ■ / 

NEW YORK LONDON / 2- ' *-- V /^ 

27 West Twenty-third St. 24 Bedford St., Strand f 

%\m ^nithcrbodur Iprcss ... 

1892 ^^ 



T5 3^i3 



Copyright, 1892 

BY 
CHARI<e;S BUXTON GOING 



Electrotyped, Printed, and Bound by 

Ube IRnicftcrbocfter press, IRcw jgorft 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 



To MY wife; 

THIS LITTLK VOIvUME; IS AFFECTIONATEI/Y 
INSCRIBED 



CONTENTS. 



Where; She Comes 3 

When She Comes 5 

A Meeting 7 

Questioning 8 

In Cewa's Autograph Album .... 9 

Unfuleilled 10 

In Glad Weather 11 

Retrospect 12 

When the Brush was Cleared ... 14 

Waiting 16 

The Squire 17 

Unrest 19 

A Daydream 21 

Her Mouth 23 

Her Hair 24 

Her Eyes 25 

After Moonrise 26 

Aline 28 

Living 31 

White Crape 33 

Eventide 35 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

A Mood 37 

West Wind 38 

Vacation • . . . 40 

thist1.ed0wn 42 

Longing 44 

The South Wind 46 

A Summer Song 48 

The Sandman's Song 49 

Midsummer 51 

The Night Wind 53 

A S1.EEPY Song 55 

Two LuxiyABiES . . 57 

The True Song 59 

Aprii^ 61 

In ID1.E Time 63 

Inspiration 65 

Sii^ENCE 66 

LiEE 67 

Death . 68 

A Type 69 

Opportunity 70 

The Poets 72 

Fwght of Summer 74 

Coastwise 75 

To James Whitcomb Rii^ey .... 76 

RETURN OF Spring 78 

To You Who Read 81 

The WorIvD is Large 82 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

To THE Professor 83 

Ballad of Shade and Sun .... 84 

In Shadytown 86 

Triolets 87 

With Flowers 89 

A Contented Man ....... 90 

Romance of a Hammock 92 

LUELLA 94 

A Country Muse 96 

" The South Wind " and " Vacation " appeared origi- 
nally in St. Nicholas ; "In Glad Weather" and " Where 
She Comes " in Scribnef' s ; " When She Comes " in The 
Ladies' Home Journal ; and "Questioning" in Life. 
Acknowledgment is made to editors and publishers of 
these magazines for their courtesy in permitting reprint 
of the selections here. 



J\TO nightingale am /, to bring 

A throbbing echo from the night 
With wild sweet harmony ; I sing 
As any sparrow might : 

As any little roadside bird 

That, full of cares about its nest ^ 

Still feels the sunshine, and is heard 
In song among the rest. 

But one who, passing, stops to hear 
May find how mayiy others sing, 

And bear remembrance all the year 
Of one sweet day in spri7ig : 

He may not know the single bird ; 

It sings like any other one ; 
And yet he feels that spring has stirred 

And filled his heart with S2in ! 



When spring comes back again, and brings 
A twitter round the building nest, 
And where the fields were barrenest 

A tender hue of summer clings, 

And, ere the trees begin to wake, 
A group of early wild-flowers blow. 
Nor think if any see or no, 

But blossom, for the dear spring'' s sake — 

So, Sweet, I bring this group of songs ; 
That, if no other one approve. 
They yet may lift a heart of love 

To you, to whom their life belongs. 



WHERE SHE COMES. 

"\ X /"ITH heavy elders overhung, 
* ^ Half hid in clover masses, 
An old fence rambles on among 

The tangled meadow grasses. 
It makes a shade for lady-fern, 

Which nestles close beside it ; 
While clematis, at every turn, 

And roses almost hide it. 

In shade of overhanging sprays 

And down a sunny hollow. 
By hazel copse and woodland ways. 

The winding fence I follow : 
By rose and thorn and fragrant dew, 

In search of something sweeter — 
The orchard gap, where she comes through, 

And I go down to meet her ! 

The sunlight slants across the fence 

Where lichens gray it over. 
And stirs a hundred dreamy scents 

From fern and mint and clover : 



SUMMER-FALLO IV. 

But though the air is sweet to-day, 
I know of something sweeter — 

That she can only come this way, 
And I am sure to meet her ! 

And so, while chipmunks run a match 

To tell the wrens who 's coming. 
And all across the brier patch 

There sounds a drowsy humming — 
The hum of honey-seeking bees, — 

I seek for something sweeter ; 
A gap, amongst the apple-trees. 

Where I am going to meet her ! 



WHEN SHE COMES. 

"]\ /r Y love may come in early spring 
IVX through orchards, April-kissed, 
With happy bluebirds carolling 

In dreamy skies of mist. 
Then sing, glad oriole, and hush 

The mourning of the dove : 
But sing ! sing, bobolink and thrush 

Of love, and love, and love ! 

Or she may come in summer days 

When heated meadows rest. 
And, down the fields, a goldfinch sways 

Upon the thistle's crest. 
Then, black-throat, sing ! you love the sun ; 

Sing, quail, amid the heat. 
And all your songs shall make this one — 

' ' My sweet — my sweet — my sweet ! ' ' 

Her path may lie through leafless trees ; 

Her dainty feet may stir 
Soft rustling leaves ; the chickadees 

May all make love to her. 
5 



SUMMER-FALLO W. 

Then, sun, shine soft from golden skies ; 

Stay, happy wind, to kiss 
Her cheek, and fill my sweetheart's eyes 

With bliss, and bliss, and bliss ! 

Across a track of drifting snow 

If she should chance to tread, 
The lingering flakes shall come and go 

Around her darling head — 
The longing flakes caress her hair : 

Then, snowbirds, round her dart ! 
Sing, shining snow and shining air, 

' ' Sweetheart — sweetheart — sweetheart. 

I would, if she shall come in spring, 

That springtime might be here. 
I long for winter, if it bring 

My love a day more near ! 
For what is spring or what is fall ? 

lyove only makes the skies : 
My love shall blend the joy of all 

Sweet summers, in her eyes ! 



A MEETING. 

T CAN recall so well how she would look — 

How, at the very murmur of her dress 
On entering the door, the whole room took 
An air of gentleness. 

That was so long ago ! and yet his eyes 

Had always, afterwards, the look that waits 

And yearns, and waits again, nor can disguise 
vSomething it contemplates. 



May we imagine it ? the sob, the tears, 
The long, sweet, shuddering breath ; then, on 
her breast. 

The great, full, flooding sense of endless years 
Of heaven, and her, and rest ! 



QUESTIONING. 

/^H, mouth as sweet as any morn in May ! 
^-^ Oh, lips as rosy as the sunlight glow ! 

If I should speak the words which struggle so, 
What answer would you give to me to-day ? 
Would that white breast as softly heave, I pray, 

The gentle breath as calmly come and go 

When I had spoken ? Surely, you must know 
Already, everything I have to say : 
Yet maybe, telling it, I might obtain 

From your sweet influence, some grace of speech 
To make my words not altogether vain ; 

Some gentle phrase I learned of you might 
reach 
Your tender heart : and softly entering, make 
Dear love, who lies half sleeping there, awake. 



IN CELIACS AUTOGRAPH ALBUM. 

T HARDILY know what I should write ; 

For such a dainty little maid 
The verses should be fairy light — 
My muse can scarce attempt the flight, 
I am afraid. 

Ah ! little flower, whom sun and shade 

And breezes, passing to and fro. 
Each day have all the sweeter made, 
No wandering footstep yet has strayed 
To where you grow. 

So hide, the sheltering leaves below ; 

l>st someone chance their shade to part, 
Who, seeing you, should love you so 
He 'd bear you off": yet 't would, I know, 
Be next his heart ! 



UNFULFILLED. 

"\TEXT month, he said, the bells shall ring 
^ And my love's eyes be still and sweet ; 
And she shall wear some soft white thing, 
Her hand in mine, while children fling 
White blossoms at her feet. 

They rang the bell, and smoothed away 
Her hair, above the sweet, still eyes ; 

But ere she took his hand that day. 

He must have trod the silent way 
From earth to Paradise. 



IN GLAD WEA THER. 

T DO not know what skies there were, 
-*- Nor if the winds were high or low : 
I think I heard the branches stir 

A little, when we turned to go ; 
I think I saw the grasses sway 

As if they tried to kiss your feet — 
And yet, it seems like yesterday, 

That day together, Sweet ! 

I think it must have been in May ; 

I think the sunlight must have shone ; 
I know a scent of springtime lay 

Across the fields ; we were alone : 
We went together, you and I — 

How could I look beyond your eyes ? 
If you were only standing by, 

I did not miss the skies ! 

I could not tell if evening glowed, 

Or noonday heat lay white and still, 
Beyond the shadows of the road ; 

I only watched your face, until 
I knew it was the gladdest day. 

The sweetest day that summer knew, 
The time when we two stole away, 

And I saw only you ! 



RETROSPECT. 

A XT" HAT counts to-day the wreath of frost 

Across the window pane ? 
What matters when the streets are lost 

In driving sheets of rain ? 
If memory knows some sunny nook 
Along the willow-margined brook, 

To-day may storm in vain. 

Though all around us buildings rise 

To bound the outward view, 
Though every narrow peep of skies 

Be smoke, instead of blue, 
Yet still our happy thoughts may stray 
Through sunlit fields, along the way 

Some happy summer knew. 

And rest may come, 'mid cares increased 

If, slipping off their load, 
We sometimes tread, in thought at least, 

A shady cotmtry road, 
Or dream of basking hills, and feel 
The sweet warm winds which used to steal 

From meadows, newly mowed. 



RETROSPECT. 13 

And so, when to the weary mind 
Life's readings seem perplexed, 

We turn the pages back, and find 
Some earlier, easier text ; 

Until our memory beguiled 

With pictures, like a little child, 
Forgets that it was vexed ! 



WHEN THE BRUSH WAS CLEARED. 

IV/r AYBB it was better so ; 

For some practical design, 
Better that the trees should grow 

Free from underbrush and vine ; 
But it spoiled a haunt of mine — 

Haunt of golden crown and thrush, 
Where the sun could hardly shine — 

When they cleared away the brush. 

True, the ferns all died away ; 

And the shy, sweet things that hide, 
Timid of the light of day. 

All were trampled down, or died : 
But a vista opened wide 

Where had been a narrow view, 
Thicket-hemmed on every side. 

And the sweet wood-pasture grew. 

So the woods fulfilled, maybe, 
Such a use as nature meant ; 

But I could not quite agree, 
And my longing fancy went 
14 



WHEN THE BRUSH WAS CLEARED. 1 5 

Back to happy mornings spent 
Ere the brush was cleared away — 

Longing more for sentiment, 
And for less of work-a-day. 



Sweet child mysteries, that crept 

Through our childish joys and fears- 
Ah, how soon their growth was swept 

By a scythe of prosier years ! 
But although our vision clears 

With a manlier part to play, 
Comes the thought, with taste of tears. 

That the brush is cleared away ! 



WAITING. 

C HE sat and spun and looked away : 

In warm brown fields, the springing wheat 

Greened softly ; all the winds were sweet, 
And she was gay. 

" I spin," she said, " a golden thread. 
For we shall wed in May. ' ' 

So sang the wind across her thread, 
So sped her fancy far a-sea : 
She saw wide waters swinging free. 

Wide skies o'erhead. 

" Glad ripples, steal along the keel, 

And bring him weal," she said. 



A ceaseless sobbing of the wave 
Comes ever upward from the south ; 
She looks across the summer's drouth — 

Her eyes are brave. 
The wheel alone makes mournful tone 

Like those who moan a grave. 
i6 



THE SQUIRE. 

'T^HB Squire was young, and the Squire was 
^ tall 

And merry and gay, as young squires be ; 
He had guests by the score at the old stone hall. 
But it sometimes was lonely, in spite of them all : 
' ' I will choose me a wife for my home, ' ' said he. 

The maid was young, and the maid was fair, 

And gentle and true, as maidens be. 
The sweet wild-rose in the evening air, 
The breezes that lingered to touch her hair, 
Were never a whit more pure than she. 

The hall was cold for a dainty flower. 

But the bride was happy, as young wives be. 

For love's warm sun has a wondrous power ; 

And she longed all day for the one glad hour 
When the Squire would hold her upon his knee. 

But the Squire was young, and the Squire was 

gay, 
And friends by the dozen and score had he ; 

2 17 



1 8 SUMMER-FALLO W, 

And friendship's claims seemed to grow each 

day, 
For friendship is proved by a great display, 
While a wife — " Why, I love her, of course ! " 

said he. 



The Squire has friends by the dozen still, 

And restlessly visits them, here and there ; 
But his heart turns back, with a deathly chill, 
To a low green mound on a daisied hill, 

And he thinks of the touch of her wind-kissed 
hair. 



UNREST. 

\ 17" AIT thou the voyage ; the great tide up- 
• ward swelling 
Comes from a deep which lies beyond the bar ; 
What though its shores be hid ? It needs no 
telling 
That other lands there are. 

Nay — wilt thou stand in ftmitless expectation 
Straining thine eyes across the voiceless sea ? 

Turn back ; the hither shores give explanation 
Of those where thou wouldst be. 

Sweeter than these ? Yea ! but with kindred 
sweetness. 

Fairer — ah, far ! but wilt thou know how fair ? 
If here thou find but void and incompleteness, 

Will all seem perfect there ? 

Where wilt thou find capacity for pleasure, 
Filled with a sting of long unrest and pain ? 

Wilt thou take there from all, and give no measure 
Of knowledge back again ? 
19 



20 S UMMER-FA LL O W. 

Vain to expend the moments in deploring : 
Time comes when thou shalt pass beyond the 
deep. 

Wilt thou go hence afar, without exploring 
What wealth this shore may keep ? 

Ah, wait the voyage ! nor spend the time in 
sighing 
Over the unknown deep. Sometime, its swell 
Shall bear thee forth. Till then, see, near thee 
lying 
Fair fields, unknown, as well ! 



A DAYDREAM. 

■pBTWEEN two rippled fields of grain— 
Two broad fields, lying in the sun — 
There creeps a narrow country lane, 
Where thrushes love to sing their strain 
And robins call, when day is done. 

And down the lane is cool and sweet ; 

The sparrows sing, adown the lane ; 
Above, the arching branches meet, 
And on the grass beneath your feet 

Their shadows stir and weave again. 

And through the warm and sleepy air 

Come faint, half fancied sounds, that tell 
Of summer, brooding everywhere : 
The call of quail, and here and there 
The distant clinking of a bell. 

I say *' they come " : for since, with you, 
I dreamed a happy dream one day, 

And waking, found the dream was true — 

It seems to me as if I knew 
That summer lingered there alway : 



22 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

That bars of sunlight always lay 

Across the pathway's checkered shade ; 
And if I lingered there to-day, 
I still should see the tall grain sway, 
And hear the lisping noise it made. 

And so I always see you stand — 

With sunlight falling on your hair. 
With sunlight over all the land 
Because of you : see, hand in hand, 
You and the summer standing there ! 



HER MOUTH. 

■\ 1 ^HAT shall I to my Lady's mouth compare ? 
* ' No tender, trembling, dewy bud of spring, 

No small soft-breasted bird, nor anything 
That I can think of, is so sweet and fair ! 
Two perfect lips, of equal beauty rare — 

No wonder they so close together cling ; 

Each feels the other such a perfect thing 
That scarce a moment's parting can they bear. 

So, when she smiles, a little tender pain 
But half suggested, hovers round her lips. 

And lovingly they haste to meet again : 
Yet not so swiftly, but between them slips 

One gleam of pearly light. Ah ! could she care 

Enough to let me kiss them — would I dare ? 



HER HAIR. 

T F I could liken it to burnished gold 

Or glossy blackness of the raven's wing, 

It would not be so wonderful a thing, 
For then its loveliness were easy told. 
Soft wayward locks, so daintily controlled ! 

A rarer chami by far to them doth cling ; 

Bright nets are they, for light's imprisoning. 
Whose tender depths entangled sunbeams hold. 

lyike clear brown water, shimmering in the sun, 
Or dusky woods, where truant sunbeams play ; 

lyike golden dusk, that comes when day is done. 
Yet shines with half the lingering light of day — 

Nay — even these are less divinely fair, 

So perfect is the beauty of her hair ! 



24 



HER EYES. 

T COUIyD not tell the color of her eyes — 

I never searched then- tender depths, and 
thought 
Of color — nor indeed could think of aught 
But the sweet soul, which just behind them lies 
And shines out through them ; so their color flies 
And comes, with changing feeling. We are 

taught 
In Eastern tales, that gems of wondrous sort 
(The magic talismans which Caliphs prize) 
Change, as beholders change, now dark, now 

bright. 
Yet shine forever with an inward light 
I^ike deep sea-water. Even so these twin 
Sweet sisters of the sweeter soul within. 

Ah, lyove, that makest day ! my sun shall rise 
With lovelight's dawning in those lovely eyes. 



25 



AFTER MOONRISE. 

A "WASTE of moon-white, wind-swept haze 
'^"^ Where few faint stars, wide strewn and dim, 

Gleam fitfully : the eastern rim, 
White glaring, veils and yet betrays, 
lyOW lined with bars of pallid gold, 

The rising of the moon ; and clear 
The wind cries on, through oaks that hold 

To leaves of some forgotten year. 

Pale meadows, silent, half obscure 

Half plain in soft, uncertain light, 

Give back no voices to the night ; 
The winds sound all alone through moor 
And upland ; silent, black and deep 

I<ike shadows, stand the groups of pine : 
And hedges, gray and ghostly, creep 

Along the roadway's whitened line. 

Then suddenly, the swift moon leaps 
To some clear space above the drifts 
Of snow-banked cloud ; behind the rifts 

The stars shine out from darker deeps. 

And all the still, uncertain land 
With flooding moonlight overfills ; 
26 



AFTER MOONRISE. 27 

Until far-off, faint-shining, stand 
The girdling outlines of the hills. 

But all the quiet of the night 
Is stirred by vagueness of unrest, 
A nameless waiting, half-confessed ; 

The part expectancy of sight 

Or voice of things beyond : it seems 
Too infinite to comprehend. 

Too beautiful to spend in dreams, 
Too perfect to be self-contained : 

A part of some diviner whole — 

Some dreamy ocean, stretching far 

Beyond the dim horizon bar 
"Which bounds the feelings of the soul. 
We half expect some sail to lift 

And bring us news from wonderlands, 
But wait in vain. There is but drift 

And froth of fancy on the sands. 

No strange new voice to wake and cry ; 

No vision of an unknown shore — 

The silent moonlight, nothing more ! 
White lines of cloud across the sky, 
White cornfields, where the passing air 

Goes rustling by the standing sheaves ; 
A gleam of branches, gaunt and bare, 

And chatter of dead, clinging leaves. 



ALINE. 

A CROSS the whittled desks of pine, 

Time-blackened, worn, and hacked afresh 
With rude attempt at name and line. 
The sunlight falls in moving mesh. 

It glints on wavy dust-blurred glass ; 

And through the open sash below. 
With thoughts and eyes, a barefoot class 

In tempting fields a-truant go. 

And past the door, the summer breeze 
Blows idly surging waves of noise ; 

Brings in the lazy hum of bees, 
Bears out the drone of lazy boys ; 

Brings fragrance of the summer rain 
That drove me in, so sweet and cool 

That I, though rain has ceased, remain. 
Forgot by teacher and by school. 

Forgot, and musing on the names 

That in the worn old bench I see 
Deep-cut and black — "Aline " and "James," 

And then two hearts, and "53." 
28 



ALINE. 29 

Aline and James, and forty years 
INv'O hearts together ! Did j^ou know 

The flame that warms, or fire that sears, 
Aline and James, those years ago ? 

And were you pretty then, Aline ? 

Aline, to-day of silver brows. 
When you and he stole off unseen 

To tell your love and breathe your vows ? 

The girl with braided hair, and dress 
Of print or gingham, had not seen 

What things of life and death must press 
Their stamp upon you now. Aline ! 

And did your full ripe womanhood 

Grow sweet with smiles and soft with tears, 

Or did the bitter choke the good. 
And sour the fruit in forty years ? 

How would the pictured lives agree — 
The one you dreamed of, looking through 

This door, some day like this, maybe, 
And that which came to him and you ? 

For years are long and grief is fleet. 

And life or love may fade away ; 
Perhaps two paths were found by feet 

That sought but one, that summer day ! 



30 SUMMER.FALLOW. 

Perhaps your dream dissolved, or met 

A rude awakening ; or maybe 
The grass above your grave was wet 

By tears, long dried since fifty-three. 

But if you ever pass and see 

The sunlight in the open door, 
And think of days when you and he 

Were schoolmates, forty years before, 

Which sense is first, of grief or pain ? 

You sometimes think, perhaps with tears, 
Things change ; but here, old things remain 

And you. Aline, are changed with years. 

And though the time has passed away 
When I might meet you, yet I dream 

Of how you must have looked that day — 
A fair-haired girl, amid the gleam 

Of sweet wet fields, and drowsy hum 
Of school, and, hardly yet foreseen. 

The glimmer of a love to come 
And wake your womanhood, Aline ! 



LIVING. 

/^NE worked afar and alone, in the solitude 
^-^^ Of a waste of snow, where the gray wolf 

howled for food ; 
And one went out from a softly lighted hall 
Whose velvet carpets silenced his own foot-fall. 

One toiled where the whirr and scream of the 
wheels o'erhead 

Drowned out all sense but the need of daily- 
bread ; 

And one, in a quiet room, breathed in again 

The thousand thoughts of a thousand thinking 
men. 

And one came forth from a black and oozing mine 
To look on the night, and the silent hills of pine ; 
While another, kneeling on altar steps, beheld 
The pomp of mass, as the sacred music swelled. 

The soldier dreamed, and his dream was dealing 

death ; 
The surgeon toiled to prolong the faltering breath ; 
31 



32 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

And ever, by day and by night, in the forge and 
loom, 

Some men produced that other men might con- 
sume. 

And he who drew from his Hfe the highest good, 
Was the man who builded the best his own man- 
hood. 



WHITE CRAPE. 

V\riTHOUT, a parched, sun-beaten hill, 
A dusty roadway, long and white, 
The summer glare of heat and light : 
Within, a tiny coffined mite 
Waxlike and still ; 

A whispered hush, and bated breath — 
The unfamiliar sense that steals 
With noise of idly passing wheels, 
Or hum of insects through the fields 
Mindless of death. 

The sounds of children's words at play 
Come sharp across the hot still air 
And reach the darkened chamber, where 
The mother sits. Her baby there 
Played, yesterday. 

' ' Poor babe ! " we say ; "a blest relief ; 
He would have learned, like all the rest, 
Precocious sin." But will her breast 
Which little baby hands caressed 
Feel less of grief? 
3 33 



34 SUMMER-FA LL O W. 

Perhaps she hardly knows the thought 
We speak of ; does not realize 
The barren evil that should rise 
Before him : only, there he lies ! 
And she has naught — 

No higher thoughts, that she may set 

Against her loss. Some neighbor's phrase 
Of awkward pity : then, the maze 
Of sordid cares through sordid days 
Till she forget ! 



EVENTIDE, 

TDUT up the bars and come ; 

Between the golden and the dark 
While one unrestful meadow-lark 
Pipes out, and else the fields are dumb, 
Follow the cattle home : 

Down through the warmth and rest 
Of faint, soft, quiet fields, that lie 
Rose-lighted from a summer sky ; 

And orchard-bordered lanes, where best 

The robins love to nest : 

Over the clovered hill 
Where whirrs some long-belated dove. 
And past the brush-lot rabbits love ; 

Through woodland growing dusk, and still 

Save for the whippoorwill : 

And so across the stream 

Which murmurs roimd the stepping-stones 
While gentle, intermitting tones 

Of mellowed evening cow-bells seem 

Part of a summer dream. 
35 



36 SUMMER.FA LL O W. 

Let down the bars, and wait 
Till up tlie softly glowing lane 
The last of all the lazy train, 
With lowings to its distant mate, 
Has loitered through the gate. 

The cows are home at last. 

Ah, me ! it seems so short a v/hile 
Since you stood waiting at the stile 
Each evening, till I drove them past, 
And made the gate-bars fast. 

And still, as long ago. 

When, just as dew begins to fall, 
I hear the long-familiar call 

And watch the cattle coming slow, 

It seems almost as though 

The old, glad days were here ; 
And I should find you, as of old. 
Waiting, between the dusk and gold 

It seems to bring you back so near. 

This sunset silence, dear ! 

And some sweet evening, when 

Old dreams stray back again to you, 
I '11 pass the open gateway too ; 

And when the bars are up again, 

I shall be with you, then ! 



A MOOD. 

'T^O set the murmur of a brook to words, 

To catch the thne of drooping boughs that 
Swing, 
A motive from the floatiyig clouds, or bring 
To urbayi ears the song of woodland birds : 

To throw across the printed page a gleam 
Of country sunlight, or, perchance, to bind 
And hold in spell the singing of the wind, 

And weaving shadows by a forest stream ; 

To catch one thought from all the wide extent 
Of thoughtfd 7iature : 'mid the drive and care 
Of towns, to bring one breath of sweeter air — 

That were enough, and I should be content ! 



37 



JVEST WIND. 



T) L,OW, bright wind, across the fallows, 

Rustle through the wheat ! 
Chase the clouds till sunshine follows. 
Glance among the swirling swallows ; 

Blow, where rabbits' feet 
Brush the dew in clovered hollows ; 

Waft the thistle fleet. 

Blow, till branches sway and quiver ! 

Weave the shade and sun ; 
Blow through water-reeds ashiver, 
Dance and laugh across the river 

Till the ripples run, 
Changing all the blue to silver — 

Sun and stream in one ! 

Float the hawk, slow wheeling, single, 

Through the shining skies ; 
Chant among the trees, and mingle 
Wash of waves on far-off shingle 

With their melodies ; 
Whisper down the fern-filled dingle 

Till the thrush replies. 
38 



WEST WIND. 39 

Breathe through drowsy meadows, nooning 

In a flood of light ; 
Fan the faint wild roses, swooning ; 
Catch the brook and bird songs, tuning 

All their notes aright ; 
Sing to wakeful marshes, crooning 

lyullabies, all night ! 



VACATION. 

T WISH that I were a bird— don't you ? 

To sit all day in the branches, swinging ; 
I wish that all that I had to do 
Was to roam in the woods, and that all I knew 
Was the glad little song I was singing. 

I wish that I were a flower, to sway 

In some sweet field, where a stream was flowing ; 
To have no lessons at all to say, 
But to watch how the white clouds floated away, 

And to sweeten the sweet wind's blowing. 

I 'd like to sail with the breeze, and blow 
Through wide blue skies where the clouds run 
races : 

To strew the orchards with summer snow, 

And murmur a lullaby, soft and low, 
In quiet and shady places. 

I think that flowers can see — don't you? 

And the sofl; white clouds, I am sure, are play- 
ing : 

40 



VACATION. 41 

The winds can talk to the grasses, too, 
For I 've listened and watched, and I 'm sure 
they do ; 
Why, I almost can tell what they 're saying. 

And when I sit in the fields, and see 

The long grass wave, when the breezes blow it, 
I 'm just as glad as a girl can be ; 
And the daisies are glad, too, it seems to me. 

And nod their heads, to show it. 



THISTLEDOWN. 

/^VER the fields where the daisies grow, 
^-^ Over the flushing clover, 
A host of the tiniest fairies go — 
Dancing, balancing to and fro, 
Rolling and tumbling over. 

Where do they come from, and where do they 
stray 

All in the summer weather ? 
Maybe they 're fairy children at play, 
Or wee cloud babies, just bom to-day, 

And learning to fly together. 

They might (who knows?) be the milk-white 
steeds 

Some elfin hunters are riding ; 
Or else the flock that a brownie feeds ; 
And he, perhaps, is among the weeds, 

Or down in a flower cup hiding. 

Could they be smoke from a firefly's flame? 
Or bubbles the fays are blowing ? 

42 



THIS TLEDO WN. 43 

Maybe they 're balls in some goblin game, 
Woven of dew, on a cobweb frame, 
Which elfin players are throwing. 

Quivering, balancing, drifting by, 

Floating in sun and shadow — 
Maybe the souls of the flowers that die 
Wander, like this, to the summer sky 

Over a happy meadow. 

Far in the fields is the sunlight glow, 

Faint is the scent of clover ; 
Even the murmur of wind is low, 
And the down is lazy, and still, and slow, 

And stops to balance and hover. 



LONGING. 

/^H, glad, gold sun ! can you look away 

^^^ Across the hills where the south winds 

blow, 
And see if the crocus is up to-day, 
Or violet flowers begin to grow ? 

Oh, warm, soft wind ! have you heard the sound 
Of leaf-buds talking about the spring, 

Or wild-flowers stirring beneath the ground ? 
The brooks, I know, have begun to sing. 

I^ast night was so full of the chirp of birds 
That I think the moon must have heard it too ; 

White moon, were they happy because they 
heard 
The springtime calling them while they flew ? 

Oh, far, faint hills, where the sunlight lies ! 

Can you see anything yet of spring ? 
It is time the bloodroot unclosed its eyes 

And dogtooth- violet bells should swing. 

44 



LONGING. 45 

The wake-robin ought to be up and bright : 
Oh, phlox and larkspur, please don't delay ! 

Anemones, open your cups of white ! 
The winter is over — 't will soon be May ! 

The woods are full of a rustling sound ; 

No wonder the thrush and the bluebird sing ! 
For they follow the summer the whole year round, 

And I am waiting, waiting for spring ! 



THE SOUTH WIND. 

/^VER the fields where the dew was wet, 
^-^^ Over a meadow with daisies set, 
Shaking the pearls in the spider's net, 

The soft south wind came stealing. 
It was full of the scent of the sweet wild-rose ; 
And it lingered along, where the streamlet flows, 
Till it made the forget-me-nots' eyes unclose, 

And started the bluebells pealing. 

Under the measureless blue of the sky, 

Drifting the silvery cloudlets by, 

Drinking the dew-brimmed flower cups dry. 

The warm south wind was blowing. 
It was sweet with the breath of a thousand springs, 
And it sang to the grasses, as ever it sings, 
With a sound like the moving of myriad wings 

Or the whisper of wild-flowers growing. 

Over the fields, in the evening glow, 
Stirring the trees as the sun sank low. 
Swaying the meadow-grass to and fro, 
A breeze from the south came creeping. 
46 



THE SOUTH WIND. 47 

It rocked the birds in their drowsy nest ; 
It cradled the blue-eyed grass to rest ; 
And its good-night kisses were softly pressed 
On pale wild-roses, sleeping. 

And only the stars and the fireflies knew 

How the south wind murmured, the whole night 

through, 
In scented fields where the clover grew 

And soft white mists were wreathing. 
For it stole away, when the night was spent, 
And none could follow the way it went ; 
But the wild-flowers knew what the wind's song 
meant, 

As they waked to its last low breathing. 



A SUMMER SONG. 

/^H, happy, happy summer sun 
^-^ And happy silent sand ! 
Oh, little happy waves that run 

And lap along the land ! 
Oh, golden glow among the trees ! 

Oh, breath of sea and pine ! 
The rippling wind and wash of seas 

Shall join their song with mine. 

A song to suit the dappled sky 

Above a dimpled sea ; 
To blend the notes of birds that fly 

Across the shining lea ; 
A song that tells of dreamy days 

Along a drowsy shore, 
And croons to tiny sleepy bays 

Till they can hear no more. 

A lulling song, that bears a spell 

Too slumberful for speech ; 
The heaving of a quiet swell 

That slips along a beach : 
Just such a nodding lullaby, 

So soft and warm and deep, 
That you and I and waves and sky 

Together fall asleep ! 



THE SANDMAN'S SONG. 

OlyEEPY pussy willows that nod along the 

^ stream, 

Drowsy little buttercups that dream and dream 

and dream ; 
lyittle downy birdies, asleep within the nest, 
And a tiny sleepy baby that lies on mother's 

breast. 

lyittle water-frogs sing the pussies oflf to sleep, 
Buttercups are nodding to the crickets ' ' peep a 

peep ! ' ' 
Softly sing the breezes to hush the nestling birds, 
And mother sings her baby a song of baby 

words. 

Fireflies go tiptoeing around the willow beds ; 
Buttercups are watched by all the stars above 

their heads : 
The great gold moon sails over to shield the 

birds from harm, 
And mother rocks the baby and holds it on her 

arm. 

4 49 



50 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

When morning calls the pussies across the wak- 
ing brook, 

And all the golden blossoms unclose their eyes to 
look, 

When birdies wake and sing, in their nest upon 
the tree, 

Why, what a happy morning will mother's baby 
see ! 



- MIDSUMMER. 

T KNOW of a hill where the bracken grows ; 
-^ And the white clouds, sailing the wide, wide 

sky, 
Seem skimming its top when the west wind 

blows, 
And the warm sun sleeps where the ferns are 

high. 

And I know a nest where a girl may hide — 

A small soft nest for a sleepy day, 
With a great warm boulder on either side, 

And before it the bracken stretching away : 

A drowsy cushion of deep gray moss ; 

A nook that none but the sun can see ; 
With the scent of the sweet-fern blowing across, 

And the breeze and the bracken to talk to me. 

And I could be happy there, all day through. 
Just lying and watching the shadows sail, 

Till, living so much as the fairies do, 
It seems as if all were a fairy tale, 
51 



52 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

And this were my palace, and I were queen : 
And it seems sometimes, if I just should try, 

With the seed of the bracken to make me unseen, 
That the wind might blow me across the sky. 

Afar and away in the wide clear blue. 

And yet out of all things, the best I know 
Is to dream in the sunshine, a whole day through, 

Where the moss and the bracken and sweet-fern 
grow. 



THE NIGHT WIND. 

O OFTlvY the night wind blew over fields where 
the clover was sleeping, 
Softly the clover stirred in its dreams as the 
wind went by, 
And the night wind hushed it to rest, and still 
more silently creeping 
Over the dewy hills, stole into the open sky. 

Softly the flowers gave up their dead, and the 
night wind took them ; 
Faint vanished scents, and souls of butterflies 
lay on its breast : 
Shadowy songs of birds, and sunbeams whose 
sisters forsook them, 
Or left them, lost in the woods, when the sun 
went down in the west. 

Only the evening primrose waked in the misty 
hollow ; 
Only the night-moths knew how the night wind 
whispered away ; 

53 



54 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

But neither the moths nor the primrose told, nor 
did any follow, 
To see how it silently bore the ghosts and 
dreams of the day. 

Far, far out of the world the wind with its freight 
is blowing. 
To the golden lands, far-lying, which float in 
the western sky : 
And oft, as the sun goes down, you may see their 
shores faint glowing — 
The shores of the land of fairy dreams, as the 
evening wind steals by. 



A SLEEPY SONG. 

Q LOW, slow, breezes blow, 
^ Birds in the nest are swinging ; 
Over the meadow the fireflies go, 
Bach with his tiny lantern aglow ; 
And down where the bulrush and cat-tails grow, 
The frogs and the crickets are singing. 

Still, still, are hollow and hill ; 

The flags by the river are swaying 
"With drowsiest whispers ; but round the mill 
The swallows are silent ; they had their fill 
Of romping all day with the wind, until 

They all grew tired of playing. 

Rest, rest, birds in the nest ! 

Flowers in the meadow are dreaming. 
Wee heads nodding on each wee breast ; 
And, one by one, the stars in the west 
Are softly and quietly sinking to rest, 

And the fairies homeward are streaming. 

55 



56 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

vSleep, sleep, quiet and deep, 

Quieter, deeper is sinking 
Over the level where white mists creep : 
And the sound is so low of the river's sweep, 
That you almost can hear the willows weep. 

And the thoughts the daisies are thinking. 



TWO LULLABIES. 

/'"^lyOSE, close, baby eyes, close ! 
^^ Mother is near to you ; sleep while she sings; 
All of the slumber-land road she knows — 
Sleep, while the cradle-bed swings, 

My baby ! 

Rest, rest, baby hands, rest ! 

Mother is near to you ; sleep by her side. 
Mother and loving and home are the best — 

Nothing but good shall betide 

My baby ! 



C IvEBP, baby ! mother is waking. 
*^ Sleep, sleep ! 

Father is out where the billows are breaking, 
Out on the deep. 
Sleep ! 

Rest, baby ! mother will hold you. 
Rest, rest ! 

57 



58 S UMMER-FA LLO W. 

Safe in her arms she will rock you, and fold you 
Close to her breast — 
Rest ! 

Wake, baby ! father is calling — 

Hear ! hear ! 
Father is coming to me, to his darling — 

Father is near ! 

He is here ! 



THE TRUE SONG. 

C HALL it breathe of love, that ties 
^ Happy hearts together ? 
Praise a little maiden's eyes, 

Sing the summer weather ? 
Lull a baby off to sleep ? 

Or, in stronger fashion, 
Touch on higher things, and sweep 

All the depths of passion ? 

Shall it murmur soft and low, 

Like the wind in May ? 
Shall it trip along, or go 

Gravely on its way ? 
Shall it be a brook that glides 

Over mossy stones, 
Or shall swing of mighty tides 

Kcho in its tones ? 

Who shall sing ? a student skilled, 
Apt at rhyme and measure, 

Or a simple youth, heart filled 
With his heartsome pleasure ? 
59 



6o SUMMER.FALLOW. 

Must a grace of style and form 

Beautify the metre, 
Or is homely verse more warm, 

And the ballad sweeter ? 

Which shall be the test atid proof ? 

One, or none, or all ! 
- I^ife the warp, and love the woof, 

Thousand webs may fall 
From the busy loom of song : 

Only this the art — 
He who makes the fabric strong 

Weaves a living heart ! 



APRIL. 

A CROSS a slope of gently greening sward, 
"^^ Where yet the blossom tempts no butterfly, 
The soft spring sunlight shines, and lengthens 
toward 
The western sky. 

There is no summer fulness in the winds — 
Only the dreamy stirring of the dawn 

When sweet ecstatic spring awakes, and finds 
The winter gone : 

And all the apple-boughs, which bud anew 
With throbbing life, are touched with golden 
sheen, 

As if a lingering sunlight shimmered through 
Their tender green. 

Clear stand the trees on yonder orchard hill ; 
Clear stands each feathered spray against the 
sky; 
And on the shining slope, distinct and still, 
Their shadows lie. 

6i 



62 SUMMER-FALLOW. 

Not deep and black, as in an August sun, 

But soft and mellow on the soft spring ground ; 

Shot with the golden light, with which each one 
lyies hemmed around. 

Oh, wondrous Spring ! so stirred by secret thrill 
Of life, that e'en the shadows shine with gold ; 

And softened warmth glows through the branches, 
till 
Their leaves unfold. 

But through the happiness, though robins sing. 
Though pear-buds sweeten all the April air, 

The strange, delicious sadness of the spring 
Is everywhere. 

Ah, woe ! that joy can come so near to pain ; 

Oh, joy ! that grief can hold so much of bliss — 
That winter waiting may at last attain 

To days like this ! 



IN IDLE TIME. 

T N sleepy time of summer days, 

When fields are lulled by crickets chirring, 

And far-off hills where cattle graze. 
Give sound of cow-bells faint recurring, 
When scarce the lazy wind is stirring, 

And every sailing shadow stays : 

In time when fields are idly sunning. 
And brown-eyed yellow daisies drowse, 

When pebbled streams scarce ripple, running 
Around the feet of standing cows ; 
In idle time of scythes and plows, 

When thrushes hide, the sunlight shunning ; 

When drowsy locusts sing a tune 

In ceaseless round of dry intoning, 
And far afield, all afternoon. 

Some mournful dove makes frequent moaning ; 

When greedy bees forbear their droning 
To feast in orchards, windfall strewn : 

In idlest time of summer weather. 
There sometimes comes an idle dream 
63 



64 SUMMER-FALLO W. 

Of childish days : a question, whether 
They seemed as glad as now they seem ; 
A longing to reverse the stream 

Of days, and journey back together. 

Then, strange sweet mysteries surrounded 
Our childish thoughts of earth and sky ; 

Beyond the old stone walls that bounded 
Our fields, we hardly cared to pry ; 
And framed our own philosophy. 

In which all nature was expounded. 

And though the child thoughts faded,, till 
They merged in duller common-senses, 

We yet experience a thrill 

In calling back our wild ' ' pretenses, ' ' 
The rocky hill beyond the fences, 

The wading place below the mill — 

The golden autumn sunlight, sleeping 
Along the hills. Were we, or no, 

More glad ? Or does our memory, keeping 
The sweet, let all the bitter go ? 
And shall we not hereafter know 

The joy of all, without the weeping ? 



INS PI R A TION. 

'T^HERE came, one day, to my lips a song : 
''■ The lips but aided to give it birth, 
But a voice that sang in my heart was strong, 
And the life it gave was the song's whole worth. 

And I laughed, and said : " I will sing again 
Another time, in the same sweet tone ' ' ; 

But ah ! 't is the spirit who sings — not men : 
The song was dead, which I sang alone ! 



SILENCE. 

A SHOT, and the song was stilled ; 
■^^ A frost, and the bud was killed ; 
A drought, and the sprouting seed was parched 
With its promise unfulfilled. 

And the singer returned to clay 

And was as he was before ; 
The leaves that mouldered away 

But added to nature's store ; 
And out of the seed that dissolved, some day 

A seed might be fed once more. 

But where was the singing ? Slain 

By a single leaden grain ? 

Should the will that guided be wholly lost 

And each atom it swayed remain ? 
The life succumb to the heat or frost 

That dragged at its robe in vain ? 



66 



LIFE. 

T S it a river flowing to the sea 

"*■ That, when the bar is crossed, has reached 
its goal ? 
Is there no further progress for the soul. 

But rest and silence all eternity ? 

Nay ! if thou wish the figure, let it be 
A sea itself, which, drawing from the shoal, 
Grows deep and widens, till its surges roll 

With but the skies to bound their liberty. 

Itself the sea, that here in land-locked bays 
Obeys the ocean-tides which inward flow : 

We cannot see the main, for shoreward haze ; 
But when the last ebb ripples out, we know 

Through all the weary sobbing of the shore. 

The pure deep sea receives its own once more. 



67 



DBA TH. 

A NARROW shadow, thrown across the door, 
'^*- And all beyond, sweet fields and endless 
day 
Of sunshine. One last turning in a way 
Thence leading onward, fairer evermore. 
A thread of mist, low lying near the shore ; 
This side, a narrow glimpse ; a moment, gray 
And dim ; then clouds are swept away 
And endless, clear, the great sea lies before. 

The end, the dark, and silence ? Ah ! we know 
Scarce a beginning yet ! And light and song 

And knowledge, given larger room, shall grow 
As long as all eternity is long. 

A shade, a turn, a mist — a moment's fears 

Then light, to learn with God for endless years ! 



68 



A TYPE. 

T PASSED the port at ebb to-day, 

And, grounded by the tide, 
A score of helpless vessels lay 
Careened upon their side : 

" A type," I said ; " one life will fail 
And, with its help withdrawn, 

Dependent hearts, like stranded sail, 
Find all that buoyed them gone. ' ' 

I passed at noon ; a change of mood 
Had filled the sparkling bight. 

And, dancing on another flood, 
The vessels floated light : 

"Yet true," I cried, " the type will prove ; 

More sad than death that takes 
Is this — so soon another love 

Refills the gap he makes ! ' ' 



69 



OPPORTUNITY. 

"\ "^ rHIIvB tropic suns hung overhead 

A silent orchid grew, 
And day by day its leaves were fed 
By earth, and air, and dew ; 

And night by night the western flame 
Paled into moonshine white, 

But yet no bud put forth, nor came 
A bloom by day or night. 

Rank all around grew vine and weed 
While slow the flower matured, 

l/cst, by its least defect, a seed 
Might fail to be secured : 

But, lost amid the thicket's gloom, 

No butterfly that passed 
Sought honey from the tardy bloom ; 

It failed of fruit at last. 

Far off, beneath a northern sky. 
The grass grew everywhere. 

And every wind that passed it by 
Had pollen grains to bear, 
70 



OP FOR TUNITY. 7 1 

And every tiny plume which tossed, 

Nodded and gave and gained ; 
What if the thousand blossoms lost ? 

A million yet remained : 

What if a million chances failed ? 

A thousand found success ; 
And, foot by foot, the sod prevailed 

Over earth's barrenness. 

It drank the sun where children played 

And kine grazed far and wide ; 
While, choked amid the thicket's shade, 

A fruitless orchid died. 



THE POETS. 

T^HE little poet is a tiny stream 
-*■ Winding, perhaps unnoticed, through the 
wold, 
But catching here and there a flashing gleam 
Of sunlight gold ; 

Making reflection of a little space 

In some near landscape, or a bit of sky, 
Or throwing back the image of a face 
That passes by ; 

Held to a channel — taking all his tone 

From near surroundings — living but a day ; 
Babbling at trifles, and at last unknown 
A league away. 

But the great singer is a sweeping tide 

Moved by deep currents, mighty and un- 
known ; 
lyifting the burdens of a world, beside 
Bearing his own ; 
72 



THE POETS. 73 

Making a mirror where a nation's eyes 
May mete themselves with heaven that spans 
them o'er, 
And gleaming far, although the mists arise 
To dim the shore. 

With one vast purpose — bound by mighty laws. 
Not narrow limits ; governed still, though 
free ; 
Half is from earth, and half his fulness draws 
From infinite sea. 



Yet they have both alike one element. 

Fed from on high in different degree ; 
Each runs his course, to find at last content 
In one great sea. 

The least of all, who holds one purpose fast — 

To make his clearest currents purer still — 
Shall add God's love to man's, and work at last 
His Master's will. 



FLIGHT OF SUMMER. 

'T^HE autumn wind has made its moan all day 
•*■ In shivering woods, where dry leaves rus- 
tle down, 
And over wasted fields, fast turning brown 
With grief, that summer should have fled away 
So fast, so far : it seems but yesterday 

She came, a fair young queen, with golden 

crown 
Of buttercups ; now vainly would we drown 
The southland's faint recall — she may not stay. 

Then all the trees wail out : ' ' Ah, envious 
south ! ' ' 
And through the withered grass there steals a 

sigh, 
As evening winds pursue where summer goes : 
" Ah, stay ! " they cry ; " once more, with rosy 
mouth, 
Kiss us to warmth. See ! how the pale gold sky 
And clear-lined west foretell the winter 
snows ! ' ' 



74 



COASTWISE. 

A STRETCH of sharp, salt grass and barren 
"^^^ sand, 
And over all the roaring of the sea, 
Which swells and dies on one untiring key- 
As the wind sweeps. Across the long, low 

strand 
The whitened foam sweeps inward to the land, 
And dragging myriad pebbles down the lea, 
It sucks them oceanward, as sullenly 
The green wave gathers back its outstretched 
hand. 

No golden tropic island scents the breeze, 

But brine, blown in from endless heaving main ; 

And from its birthplace in the open seas 
It sings o'er sandy bluffs — no dreamy strain 

Of summer hills, where piping shepherds roam. 

But toss of waves, and seething of the foam ! 



75 



TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

{On first owning a volume of his poems.) 

A /T AY I walk awhile with you ? 
^^ *■ I who watched you going past 
Now and then, and never knew 

Where you went — may I at last 
Walk with you an hour or two ? 

Wander with you, arm in arm. 
Not through any noisy street 

Walled and paved, but round the farm, 
Till, like wading boys, our feet 

Stir the knee-deep clover balm ? 

Teach me things we need to learn. 
We who, half-way city bred, 

Still at heart will often yearn 
For a wide sky overhead 

Or the cooling breath of fern : 

Let me feel as you feel— so — 
Lying deep in orchard grass, 

Hearing all the winds that blow, 
Watching where the breezes pass 

Swaying grass tops to and fro ; 
76 



TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILE Y. yy 

Letting thoughts and fancies fly- 
Till they get so far away 

We can't call them back, and lie 
Just content to let them stray 

All outdoors and round the sky. 

Tell me, why do country things 

Fall so sweetly into words. 
That a man who loves them sings 

lyike the little happy birds 
Filled with joy of many springs ? 

Tell me how a song is made, 
How to learn the robin's song 

When he calls through orchard shade 
Flecked with sunlight, morning long, 

lyittle bars the wind has played : 

How to win and hide away 

In a book, the heart of June, 
Till its sunlight seems to play 

On the page, with drowsy tune 
Crickets make in new-mown hay. 

lyCt me walk a while with you — 
Bask and doze, or drink my fill 

In the clover scent and dew 
Over farm and meadow, till 

You, who know them, teach me too. 



RETURN OF SPRING. 

T "WATCH the shadows come and go, 
I hear the wind among the trees 

Or feel it on my cheek, and know 

That there have been such things as these, 
Throughout a hundred centuries. 

That cowslips starred the woods in spring. 
For ages, ere our life began ; 

The brooks stole through them murmuring, 
The same blue thread of river ran 
Without the sight or thought of man. 

And all the misty warmth to-day, 
The flight of birds and insects' hum, 

Are but in likeness of the way 

"Uncounted thousand springs have come, 
"While yet the voice of man was dumb. 

There is no change in nature's face ; 

She sings the same mysterious tone 
"Which soothed the earliest of our race, 

In dim forgotten age of stone ; 

The progress is in man alone. 
78 



RETURN OF SPRING. 79 

One changing life, 'mid changeless laws ; 

We claim the birthright, yet must see 
That every smallest daisy draws 

From longer ancestry than we. 

And mocks us with infinity. 

I/3ok back the years ; our primal kind, 
Uncouth, inhuman, scarce display 

The Godlike impress on the mind ; 
Yet all around them, nature lay 
As grandly perfect as to-day. 

Divine in patience : well content, 
Since such perfection lay in her, 

To wait for man's development 
To furnish an interpreter, 
Nor stint her wealth till that occur. 

Not counting all the weary past, 
But waiting to be understood ; 

That haply man might find at last, 
Through sight of her infinitude. 
More knowledge of the higher good. 

Be turned by kind, if forceful, hands 
From low ideals of ease in sloth. 

To learn the key from her who stands 
Serene yet tireless — blending both 
Perfected rest and endless growth. 



8o S UMMER-FALL O IV. 

Each breath that stirs, each trembHng gleam 

Across the softly budding tree, 
Bespeaks a faint, evasive dream 

Of bygone years and years to be ; 

We live amid eternity. 

And so, for countless thousand springs, 
The same warm sun awakes, and fills 

The air with stir of fluttering wings ; 
The same sweet sense of living thrills 
The brooks embosomed in the hills. 

And man, though half unconscious, learns 
Old lessons with a deeper sense. 

Old thoughts in which new meaning bums, 
From these renewed divine events 
In one eternal Providence. 



TO YOU WHO READ. 
(rondeau.) 

'T^O you who read, I make no claim 
-'' Of long acquaintanceship with fame 
Nor may I preface this address 
By any lines, wherein the press 

Makes kindly mention of my name. 

So, should my Pegasus go lame, 
Or style or subject meet with blame, 
I will but plead for gentleness, 

To you who read ! 

Nay — not because my Muse's flame 
Bums dimly, shall I hide in shame ; 
But should a word of mine make less 
My brother's joy, or give distress — 
Then I were sorry that I came 

To you who read ! 



8i 



THE WORLD IS LARGE. 
(rondeau.) 

'T^HE world is large enough, although 
-^ A few, who wander to and fro 
With some unnamed, unknown regret 
Or grief, which they would fain forget, 

Have sought, and have not found it so. 

1*00 small, perhaps, for sin to show 
Its sinfulness ; too small to know 
All majesty of truth, and yet 

The world is large ! 

With largeness for a soul to grow. 
With larger ends than joy or woe ; 

Too large for any man to set 

The bounds of knowledge : who shall fret, 
And say " the world is small " ? Ah, no ! 
The world is large. 



TO THE PROFESSOR. 
(rondeau.) 

'\T OUR path and mine lie wide apart ; 
^ For you, the things of head and heart, 
The level of that loftier plane, 
Where soul draws near its source again : 

For me, the sordid street and mart. 

Your choice has found "that better part," 
And, Martha-like, I feel the smart. 
And oft contrast, with secret pain, 

Your path and mine ! 

But yet, two vessels may depart 
On different tacks, yet by one chart 
Direct their course across the main, 
To some far port : and so these twain 
May finish closer than they start, 

Yotu: path and mine ! 



83 



BALLAD OF SHADE AND SUN. 

(bai,i.ade; a double refrain.) 

"\ 1 THEN the south wind steals from a glowing 
^ ^ sky, 

Through hot, sweet meadows and haunt of bees ; 
When the sunlight ripples in tawny rye, 

Sing hey ! for a hammock among the trees ; 
But whenever the heat to the southward flees, 

When the shrill winds whistle and shriek, and 
strow 
The shreds of the summer, we find our ease 

With a book and a pipe by a wood fire's glow. 

When days of the summer go softly by 

In sight of the mountains or sound of seas. 
When Mabel is tender or Maud is shy. 

Sing hey ! for a hammock among the trees : 
But whenever it happens, or fate decrees 

You must have but ' ' a sister, ' ' (who tells you 
so) — 
Having drunk of the cup, make the best of the lees 

With a book and a pipe by a wood fire's glow. 



BALLAD OF SHADE AND SUN. 85 

When Cupid trifles and love is sly, 

While he must languish, and she may teaze ; 
For maids coquettish and swains who sigh, 

Sing hey ! for a hammock among the trees : 
But whenever the parson has earned his fees, 

And a man's own home is his home, you know, 
He joys (when her ladyship, too, agrees) 

With a book and a pipe by a wood fire's glow. 

When life is pleasant and friends are nigh, 

And everything happens to soothe and please. 
When mornings are drowsy and suns are high. 

Sing hey ! for a hammock among the trees : 
But whenever the winter begins to freeze. 

And days grow lonely, or evenings slow, 
We can brighten the tone of our reveries 

With a book and a pipe by a wood fire's glow. 

Envoi. 

For a rapt existence of sun and breeze, 
Sing hey ! for a hammock among the trees : 
But the solidest, warmest of comforts go 
With a book and a pipe by a wood fire's glow. 



IN SHAD YTO WN. 

(ronde;au.) 

" T N Shadytown " — the words suggest 

Two lines of elms, where orioles nest 
Beneath a quiet strip of sky : 
Bach side the shadowed road, should lie 
Old country gardens, quaintly dressed. 
It breathes an air of simple rest, 
As if no dweller there were pressed 
For time ; the days should slumber by 

In Shadytown. 

And oftentimes, it seems 't were best. 

Such freedom from this anxious quest 

Of ours ; but smaller cares may try 

The smaller life. Perhaps the sigh 

Stirs often, from the rustic breast 

In Shadytown ! 



86 



TRIOLETS. 



A Prelude. 

VrOU stood at the gate 

And robins were calling. 
It must have been fate 
You stood at the gate 
That evening, so late ; 
The twilight was falling, 
You stood at the gate 
And robins were calling ! 



An Ellipsis. 

We need not tell 
Quite all we know ; 
So what befell 
We need not tell — 
It 's just as well 
To leave it so ; 
We need not tell 
Quite all we know ! 
87 



88 SUMMER-FA LLO W. 

And a Postlude. 

You whispered so low 
I hardly could hear you ; 
And how should I know 
You whispered so low 
On purpose to show 
You wanted me near you ? 
You whispered so low 
I hardly could hear j^ou ! 



WITH FLOWERS. 



f^O, Rose ! and in my lady's ear to-night 

^-^ Whisper sweet wishes for the glad New 

Year ; 
And to her heart bring peace, and pure delight 

And gentle thoughts of him who sent thee here. 
Ah, happy flower ! yet must thou now confess 
That she can teach thee greater loveliness ! 

II. 

Ah, Roses tender, sweetest of roses, 
I pray you, look in my lady's face ! 
Saw you e'er sweeter amongst your own ? 
Speak soft, ere slumber your petals closes ; 
For him who sent you, bespeak a place 
In thoughts as faultless as flowers alone. 



A CONTENTED MAN. 

T T E had a little cottage home 
-*■ -*■ Behind the country store — 
A simple, quaint, old-fashioned place 

With vines around the door, 
A yellow rose-bush in the yard. 

Two rows of hollyhocks, 
And near the flowering almond bush 

A bed of four-o' -clocks. 

He had not many books, but felt 

His poverty no lack ; 
The Bible, some one's Life of Grant, 

A drug-store almanac. 
An old back-number magazine, 

His Hbrary's extent ; 
But he would neither claim nor wish 

The literary bent. 

And simple in his mode of life 
One room sufficed for all — 

His parlor, kitchen, dining-room, 
His library and hall. 

No grand saloon was spread for him, 
No cloisters heard his tread ; 
90 



A CONTENTED MAN. 

But never king had wider sky 
Nor bluer overhead. 

No man had less of care than he ; 

He toiled with strength and main, 
But though night found him weary limbed 

No worry taxed his brain. 
For his few wants, his daily wage 
■ Was ample to provide ; 
And poverty meant naught to him 

Who felt no want denied. 

For whether he looked out or in. 

The framing of his door 
Encircled all his eyes desired — 

He longed for nothing more. 
The social claims on him were light ; 

Nor greed nor care of wealth 
Disturbed his sleep ; and simple life 

Preserved his rugged health. 

While warm winds swung the doorway vines 

Or whitened snow-drifts spread. 
Year in and out, each night he heard 

His children romp to bed. 
Outdoors or in, he smoked his pipe. 

Then laid it on the shelf. 
Unmoved by thought, unvexed by dreams, 

And went to bed himself. 



91 



ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK. 

A MONGST the sunny apple-trees, 
■^^ And 'mid a scent of haying, 
In dainty muslin draperies 

A little maid v/as swaying ; 
The summer sky peeped down, among 
The leaves above her, as she swung ; 
And when she looked so sweet and young, 
How could he keep from staying ? 

She was asleep, he fondly thought 

But, seeking to discover, 
The pretty eyes looked up, and caught 

Him fairly, bent above her ; 
It may have been their fates' intent, 
It may have been an accident : 
But either brought the one event — 

He straightway came to love her. 

No stern duenna stood on guard, 

No proper elder sister : 
And so he found it quite too hard, 

Unhindered, to resist her : 
92 



ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK. 93 

For when the languid summer air 
Brushed back the curl of golden hair 
That touched her cheek, she looked so fair 
He stooped, and softly kissed her ! 

You think that he was "very rude," 
And she was " bold and naughty " ? 

It may be you have misconstrued — 
So, ere you look so haughty, 

Please wait to hear the story told ; 

Perhaps you may not care to scold ; 

For she was only four years old, 
And he was over forty ! 



LUELLA. 



SHE seems — and yet it were a shame 
To tell her— 
A picture of some courtly dame 
Unsuited to its rustic frame, 
Unsuited, all except the name — 
"Luella." 



I watch her part the window lace 

Asunder : 
She stands, unconscious of her grace 
And beauty. Which is out of place, 
Her worldly station, or her face, 

I wonder ? 

Her step, the way she holds her head 

In keeping 
Withal, suggests one used to tread 
The minuet : too softly bred 
To spend her days in making bread 

Or sweeping. 

94 



LUELLA. 

Is there a stir of vague desires 

Within her? 
Or would she live 'mid country squires- 
No hothouse rose amid the briers — 
But happy, when her lord admires 

His dinner? 

Perhaps she suits her queenly look— 

IvUella, 
More fitly than her country nook. 
Perhaps again, though skilled to cook, 
She hardly knows her grammar book 

Or speller. 

"T were easy to essay the test 

And prove it : 
And yet, I like this spell the best ; 
If " distance lends "—why, let it rest. 
I have my dream : might not the quest 

Remove it ? 

I love, nor need to seek my dear 

And tell her. 
It pleases me to gaze from here ; 
Why is it so ? Perhaps, from fear ; 
Perhaps — I might not love you, near, 

I^uella ! 



95 



A COUNTRY MUSE. 

(rondeau.) 

/j COUNTRY Muse is mine, untaught 
"^^ Informal modes of speech or thought^ 

Nor strung to any lofty key ; 

But shyly aski7ig you to see 
The simple posy she has brought. 

She holds, perhaps, (as muses ought,) 
A wealth of less prosaic sort — 

Less wheat than daisies — yet is she 

A country ^nuse : 

Unused to ways of stage and court, 
Uiknown to fashion : askifig naught 

But leave to roam the meadows, free 

To sing herself to sleep : to be 
The only thing she can, in short, 

A country muse ! 



96 



